Dream on

Normally I don't do posts about dreams because they're boring/cliche' and also because I rarely remember all of the details of my subconscious musings. This morning, however, I awoke thinking "what the hell?!?" because of a dream I had. It was so randomly bizarre that I feel the need to broadcast it to the world. And, if anything, I know K-Dub will appreciate it for the random Lindsay Lohan cameo.

To begin, I'm on a date with an attractive man. Great start to the dream, I know. Except his idea of a date is for us to watch some hybrid moto-cross/runner's race pass by a lookout location near the town where I currently live. Ever-the-optimist, I give it a shot and soon we're having a grand old time cuddling and watching idiots run long distances/pop wheelies on bikes (yeah I have no clue what kind of sporting event this would be) while we laugh at them from our cushy seats in his car.

Suddenly, though, we're no longer at the race, but at a high-end mall that I can guarantee would never be built anywhere in Minnesota. But we're there and suddenly my date leaves me with my overbaring mother, who squaks that we are now on a shopping mission from God, searching for something that is never fully explained to me. All I know is that I REALLY want a Jimmy Johns sandwich, but when we finally go there after combing through 26897 stores, they're out of bacon for my BLT so they make me some Mexican-esque dish. I am not pleased with this result, but my mom tells me to shut up as she inhales her delicious-looking sub while I pick at my guacamole and rice.

After we're finished, my mom leads me to this trendy banquet hall and mysteriously says "they're all waiting" before disappearing. I walk into the hall to find a dozen or so people seated around a large medieval-looking table. Guests include my BFF Emily, my date who mysteriously vanished earlier, random friends from grad school, Zac Efron and Lindsay Lohan. They all smile and cheer when they see me. They also start ordering copious amounts of alcohol and I get drunk off of one blue amaretto slushie drink (which sounds really delicious right about now). Zac keeps smiling at Emily and I and we keep giggling like preteen idiots because we really do have crushes on him in real life (because when we're together we digress from semi-mature twenty-somethings to barely tolerable teeny-boppers). Lindsay keeps ordering rounds of shots and is crowned queen of the night because she is more drunk than the rest of us, which equal most fun in our books. Soon though, she's slumping over chairs and attempting to dance on our huge table, which does not sit well with the staff. After Zac valiently tries to both sober up Lindsay (fail) and convince the staff that we're good people who just want to drink more slushie drinks and shots so they shouldn't throw us out because of one stupid drunk (fail) we're all ushered out. Zac takes my hand and I think I'm about to get lucky. Instead I'm lead to a non-denominational church service singing bad songs about Jesus while the rest of the crew presumably goes in search of more liquored-up slushie drinks.

Now, I love dream interpretation. LOVE IT. I jump at the chance to analyze my friends' dreams and I've gotten pretty good at digging deep at the symbolism of one's subconscious. But it doesn't take a dream analyst to realize that the dream I had last night denotes nothing good. I've looked up some of the key elements in an online dream dictionary and all of them basically stated that I'm messed up. Needless to say, this makes me feel so thrilled. Though I can see at least one silver lining in all of this--I'm going to figure out how to make a blue amaretto slushie drink. That shit looked so good in my dream last night. Maybe if I pass out from overconsumption of those I'll have better dreams.

Liquid tolerance

My ability to put up with other people’s crap is directly related to the amount of wine I have ingested. Don’t get me wrong, I am no lush. My bark is bigger than my bite. Although I do dream of a life of lounging around all day drinking wine by the pool while being fanned by muscular men with IQs lower than styrofoam, I realize that I have a better chance at becoming the next black president. I do, however, enjoy a glass of the red stuff on occasion. I usually find myself reaching for it after a day of dealing with idiots. I call it liquid tolerance. Some people are just born with it, but my tolerance level needs to be replenished regularly. Here is a list of some of the things that deplete my tolerance:

• People
• Humidity
• People who wear pajamas to the grocery store
• Mariah Carey
• People who ride their bikes dressed like Lance Armstrong
• Couples who sit beside each other in a booth at a restaurant when no one else is with them
• People who speed up to a 4-way stop so that they can go first
• Kate Gosselin
• People who fondle fruit (the kind you bite directly into) with their bare hands in the grocery store
• Fat free sour cream
• Weddings
• Kindergarten graduations (Congrats! You can piss your pants in a structured environment.)
• The Yankees
• People who put clothes on dogs
• People who post 185 pictures at a time on facebook of their 2-year old
• People who can’t seem to master the correct use of your, there, to - (Correct: Hey there! It’s too bad you're an idiot.)
• The person who invented Valentine’s Day
• That creepy plastic Burger King guy
• People who interrupt your story to tell one of their own
• Camel toe
• Anything Kardashian

I could go on and on. Maybe these people and things are not truly annoying. There’s a good chance I'm just overly sensitive. I’m sure I am equally annoying to others under certain circumstances. But until I figure that part out, I will continue to keep a very close eye on my tolerance level and top it off as needed or whenever I come in contact with an idiot.

The deterioration of K-Dub

It has been said that the age of a deteriorating object is described by the corresponding process of degradation and is compared with chronological age. This makes me 184 years old. The onset of my deterioration started when I broke my foot playing basketball at the age of 12.

It took my parents 2 days of watching me crawl around the house for them to realize that I had a problem. I can still feel where I broke my foot whenever I am performing my ninja duties.

It has also been said that the more severe the environment, the more intensive the deterioration. This means that objects are aging faster and therefore the corresponding virtual age is larger than the chronological. My virtual age has been determined to be 509 years old. This explains why I pee myself.


I tend to hurt myself whenever participating in anything physical. A large percentage of my injuries have involved balls. This is probably why I didn't get married until the age of 32. Basketballs, softballs, ping pong balls (that was an internal injury), and soccer balls seem to always be involved. This has led me to the conclusion that sports should only be played while sitting on the couch.


After getting into a car accident caused by an old man eating donuts, the rate of my deterioration sped up exponentially. On the positive side, this accident led to the law that forbids old people from driving while eating donuts. If they blow a blood sugar level of over .002, they will be charged with driving under the influence of donuts (DUIOD).

The occupational hazards of sitting cannot be overstated. While sitting at my desk at work, I leaned too far forward in my chair and caused something in my back to pop. The searing pain was enough to make me want to fall to the floor and cry like a baby. But because the 5-second rule applies to people, I am quite confident that my co-workers would have just circled around me to take pictures. The worst part was that this incident interfered with the time I allocate at work for facebooking and paying my bills.



My deterioration has finally gotten to the point of acceptance. I am no longer surprised by any harm that comes my way. Luckily I have discovered the medicinal value of liquor and am medicated most evenings. So although I am falling apart at the seams and even get heart palpitations that remind me of its eventual failure, I am far from upset. I am just happy to be alive and will continue to spend my days looking forward to my next dose of "medicine."

Not quite the Mile High Club

True story - circa 2005: Picture this - me on an airplane to California. I am sitting in the middle seat of a row with 3 seats. During the refreshment leg of the trip orange juice is spilled. I sop it up with my airplane napkin, along with the one my window seat neighbor gave me. A bit later, the flight attendant walks by collecting trash. Not wanting the nice man sitting in the aisle seat to have to touch my soaked napkins, I decided to make a free throw over the guy's lap and into the trash bag. Trouble is - I missed. Not only did I miss the trash bag, but my orange-juice-soaked napkins fell right on to the starched khaki crotch of aisle seat guy. Acting on pure instinct, I grabbed the napkins as quickly as possible. However, not only did I grab the napkins, I grabbed his penis at the same time. Yeah. And I don't mean that I brushed up against it or kinda sorta grazed it while grabbing at the napkins. I fisted the whole thing and yanked it in my haste to get the napkins off of him as quickly as possible. It was like non-consensual foreplay. When I yanked the guy, he jumped up with a look of absolute horror on his face. I apologized profusely, and he just kept saying it was alright. We didn't speak after that. He just sat there staring straight ahead, but I swear I caught him watching me with his peripheral vision. Needless to say, the rest of the flight was awkward. In retrospect it was one of the most entertaining flights I have ever been on. I got to second base on an airplane with a stranger and am quite proud of it. It's just too bad he wasn't into it, because I could have used my very expensive bottle of airport water to clean that orange juice stain off of his khakis.

Are you there, Tori? It's me, Farrah.

So I started the week lathered in cranky sauce. Not sure if I’m PMS’ing or just upset that 19 Kids and Counting is over for the season. Speaking of which, there should be a point in time when one’s vagina gets fed up and just closes for business. I mean, if I were Michelle’s vagina, I’d pack my bags and head for the barren hills without leaving little Jim Bob a forwarding address. But anyway, the week just keeps getting more discouraging. Despite having cankles the size of softballs, I decided to start exercising again. I started by lying on my back while trying to stretch out on my exercise ball. This is a difficult task when you have two very large breasteses that like to move in opposite directions when you're on your back. (The only time the parting of the white boobies comes in handy is when I am trying to watch tv in bed. If they didn't part, I wouldn't be able to see the tv. They are just that big.) Inevitably, lying on my back on the exercise ball resulted in me rolling off and on to the floor more than once. Mind you, this was only the warm up. Then I tried front-side down on the ball, thinking a different position would help. Nope. I rolled off and hit my head on the table. So me and my never give up attitude gave up. Later the same day I dropped a pork chop on my foot and burnt my toe while cooking dinner. I really don’t need to say anymore about that; it stands on its own.

Today alone has caused me more aggravation than I care to acknowledge. It started when I was at the doctor’s office this morning, where I helped a little old lady on to the elevator with me. The elevator doors closed and little old lady decided it would be the PERFECT time to pass some gas. She just looked at me and smiled. I should be used to this considering every old person in Walgreens and Publix walks around passing gas. It must be some kind of gas safe zone to them. I also almost ran over a kid and a snake today within a 2 minute period. Skip ahead to right now. I am sitting here with freshly spilled ice tea all over my pants. I can’t decide whether I am too annoyed to clean it up or just so used to spilling on myself that I don’t care. Whatever the reason, this should clearly be more of an urgent matter to me. I guess I take my cues from BP.

So anyway, I just want this week to be over. After reading today that the spirit of Farah Fawcett contacted Tori Spelling and gave her a message to pass along to her family, I’ve decided this week should be officially erased from history. There’s only so much I can take.

Utterly Gleek-y

So. I've been on vacation for the past week. Seven glorious days filled with me not being anywhere near the, ahem, wonderful world of Minnesota. One week filled with culture, real shopping, close friends and drag queens. Yes, drag queens. (More about them in another post, I promise. We all know how I love the gays. Especially those who can give me tips on fashion and makeup.) But imagine my reaction when I realized that the final night of my trip coincided with the season finale of Glee. Shriek! Gasp! The horror! There was much nashing of my teeth. And groaning. And so SO much whining. Because as much as this girl loves her travel, she loves her musical television more.

Happily, I was able to catch the finale while on the west coast. But that meant attempting to ignore texts from friends who got to watch it three long hours before me. Texts that included things like...
"Ahhh! Glee is SO GOOD RIGHT NOW!"
"Oh sad! Do you even get to watch? You TOTALLY SHOULD BECAUSE IT'S SO GOOD!"
"OOOH! Vocal Adrenaline is KILLING IT."
"If you watch? Have lots of Kleenex."
Clearly I have great friends. My best friend last night, though, was my west coast friend who rearranged our final evening plans just so I could catch the finale. The only catch? She had never seen an episode. So my Cliff's Notes version of the show pre-finale went something like this:
"So Mr. Schuester, the hot Spanish teacher, took over Glee club and he's struggling to get it going and keep it going. Oh yeah--he has a psycho wife who pretended to be pregnant for FAR TOO LONG after finding out she had a hysterical pregnancy because she's an idiot whose main hobby is lying. But no worries because they got divorced last week. Thank God. Oh yeah, there's a pregnant cheerleader who got preggers by a hot football player who is totally going to be my future husband and we have no clue what she'll do with the baby but she's give birth tonight! Hopefully not during their Sectional performance, which the club has to place at or they're dunzo because of the cheerleading coach. Oh yeah, there's a lot of people in Glee that I want to be friends with and they're super-talented and even more adorable. Really? You just need to watch the show. Like, for real."

So then we're watching the show and I'm sobbing and squealing every three seconds while attempting to fill in the plotholes for my friend. Which is REALLY FREAKIN' HARD when apparently every lead male on the show got bitten by the "I love you" bug. WTF, writers? So after an entire season of great character development and writing you felt that the best closure for the season was for all three male leads to profess their love even though it seems really out of left field for most of them? Really?!? So right now? My thoughts from last night's episodes can be summed up in the one statement I made to my friend. "I SWEAR the guys don't just run around professing their love all the time. I swear it's better than that."

I'm not sure she believes me. Perhaps if she vacationed in my neck of the woods she would. Because when surrounded by forests and conservative billboards, it's a lot easier to get into a brilliant musical show. As wonderful as the finale was last night, it was overshadowed by my utter gleekiness as I tried to cram an entire season's synopsis into three minutes and then explain stuff in between musical numbers. But the episode was satisfying and my appetite is slaked...for now. But rest assured that in the future I am planning all further vacation plans around crucial episodes. Unless it's a reunion with K-Dub. Because then you know we'll be camped out in front of a massive flat-screen, passing wine and popcorn back and forth in between critical plotpoints.

Ya gotta die of something ...

If you know me then you know I love coffee, which makes me a very cheap date - especially since I recently discovered 7-Eleven’s mocha iced coffee. Much cheaper than Starbucks and conveniently located right next to the Krispy Kreme display (of which I just inhale the fumes - I do not consume!), I thought I had discovered liquid gold. Yes, it’s THAT good. But knowing that anything that tastes good is going to kill me and wanting to avoid a repeat of the great pumpkin latte ass bloat of 2009, I decided to check out the nutritional info online just to make sure I wasn’t ingesting 16 ounces of pure Crisco. To my horror, the results were, well, horrifying. I discovered that besides drinking 6 grams of fat, THERE IS NO COFFEE IN MY ICED COFFEE DRINK!!! Coffee “extract" is used as a coffee flavoring ingredient. Really, 7-Eleven? Shouldn't this drink be called "Iced Coffee Extract"?? I take part of the blame for this disturbing discovery. I just shouldn't of looked. I should have remained in my ignorant bliss, where coffee doesn't kill, running to the refrigerator is exercise, and losing five pounds means putting my purse down. So there you have it. Once again, curiosity killed the grumpy woman's joy. My one daily treat. Ruined. No more thanking heaven for 7-Eleven. But at least I'll always have the Krispy Kreme fumes.